


The Comfort of Time, Among Other Things

by fisheyed



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Feel-good, Friends to Lovers, Post-War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 19:14:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13130247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fisheyed/pseuds/fisheyed
Summary: “Éowyn,” Faramir entreats again, tone hopeful.She sighs, and closes her eyes. “I am not in the mood to argue with you.”“Nor am I,” Faramir says in good humor.This cracks a small smile out of her. She turns her head to hide it, angling herself instead towards the rest of Minas Tirith. But Faramir is glad to see her spirit lightened, even if it is fleeting.





	The Comfort of Time, Among Other Things

**Author's Note:**

> This is for [@alia-andreth](https://alia-andreth.tumblr.com) for this year's Tolkien Secret Santa!! They requested Faramir/Éowyn with book canon, and "humor, sarcasm, family relations, political drama, unique HCs, Eowyn and Faramir kicking ass together", which I really hope I was able to live up to in some capacity!!
> 
> I hope you enjoy the story! ♥️ Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas!!!

He finds her sitting on the edge of the balcony, right atop the half-wall that should have been keeping her from toppling over the edge. The deep blue mantle he’d gifted her drapes itself across her lap, spilling both over and into the balcony, a distant reflection of the stars above. Faramir takes a moment to simply watch as it glimmers in the cool night air.

Finally, though, he must speak. “Éowyn,” Faramir says gently, shifting his weight to lean against the doorframe. It is too cold outside. He wonders briefly why she does not wear the mantle in coldness like this.

Éowyn does not turn to him. Her hands tighten slightly on the mantle, but neither of them says anything.

He must cross his arms to keep warm in the frigid night. Faramir can't understand how she sits there without much more than her usual dress -- and every night, at that. At least this time she has heeded his warnings that she'll catch ill and has set a thin scarf on her shoulders. It's not much to stave off the cold, but it’s a scarf nonetheless.

The mantle sits on her lap.

“Éowyn,” Faramir entreats again, tone hopeful.

She sighs, and closes her eyes. “I am not in the mood to argue with you.”

“Nor am I,” Faramir says in good humor.

This cracks a small smile out of her. She turns her head to hide it, angling herself instead towards the rest of Minas Tirith. But Faramir is glad to see her spirit lightened, even if it is fleeting.

He hesitantly takes a step out onto the veranda, soft boots making muffled scrapes on the stone. It does not seem to bother Éowyn, however, who still has her eyes closed. Her head is pressed to the wall behind her, which separates them from prying eyes.

Faramir leans over the railing, his dark hair catching in the wind and tangling around his ears. It is far from comfortable. He envies Éowyn, whose hair is tied back in some sort of braid of the Rohirrim that he does not recognize.

It looks simple but strong, elegant but functional, loose but in control. The style, he thinks, compliments her well in both beauty and attitude.

“No doubt the great poets would compare your beauty to that of Varda’s work,” Faramir says before he can think it over properly, gesturing vaguely to the stars above. His hand falls rather uselessly after the action, when she finally turns her face back to him with an expression so amused that he cannot help but flush.

Faramir wants to bury his face in his hands so that the world would never have to see his foolish face again. He can feel his cheeks and ears burning -- what had come over him?

“And no doubt,” Éowyn said, “the poets would ask why you not compose with them.”

Despite himself, Faramir can feel his face scrunch up in a smile. “What?”

Her smiles flashes back into existence again, lighting up the night in its brevity. “Those were very pretty words. Are you not a poet?”

“Oh, well, you know that I study the art, but I hardly…” He drifts off, coughing awkwardly to hide his… awkwardness. Look at him, he's hardly good with words. Can't even make sense of it in his head. Far from a poet himself.

He coughs again for good measure. “I would, ah, hardly number myself among its smiths.”

“Nonsense,” Éowyn scoffs, kicking her feet as they dangle high above the city. His heart skips a beat, but he stays silent. “Anyone can be a poet. Why, I can be a poet! Look:

_I sit upon the wall_

_And lo, here, I appall_

_A gentleman o’er there_

_Who has dark, lofty hair._ ” 

Éowyn gives a mock bow, her previously broken arm sweeping awkwardly and making his heart skip wildly. She's still sitting on the edge of the balcony.

But she just sits right back and snorts, turning her fair head away once more. Faramir misses her flash of warmth already.

“Truly,” he says, a cautious grin tugging at his lips, “an inspired poem.”

“Wasn't it?” she responds, but the answer is half-hearted and he knows that she's already left their conversation. His grin fades.

Still, Faramir tries one more time. “Of course, it lacks the real passion that accompanies the best songs and verses. And why would you call my hair ‘lofty’?”

She scrunches the mantle up in her hands, chuckling in a fashion too empty for sincerity. “Poetry is an art, and I have a style. It's not my fault you don't understand it.”

“Right,” Faramir says, laughing lightly. It’s as hollow as her laugh, and he feels oddly guilty. After shuffling on the balcony a minute longer, he turns to go back behind walls, thoughts drifting to a thick blanket or crackling fire.

Éowyn stays on the balcony for at least another hour. He almost asks her to come back inside with him, but his feet carry him away before he can hesitate.

 

* * *

 

He's just finished meeting with King Elessar when he passes her in the halls. Her hair is in the braid he'd last seen, but the flyaways that form a messy halo around her head ruin the effect she'd had at midnight. There are dark circles under her eyes and stains he can’t quite identify on her dress.

Faramir shouldn’t think that Éowyn looks beautiful right now, but she does. He can’t help that his breath catches at the sight of her, or that his heart leaps to his throat before he can regain his bearings.

Blinking away his confusion, he offers her a smile, which she notices but barely returns. “Lady, forgive me, I've nearly run into you.”

“I'll survive,” she says, smoothing her dirty skirts distractedly. She does not seem to be in a hurry to get anywhere, and Faramir allows a small hope to blossom in his chest.

“It’s very stifling in these halls,” he starts, fanning himself for effect.

Éowyn gives him a blank look.

He drops his hand again and feels more foolish than ever. But Faramir has never been one to give up, and he pushes through his embarrassment. “I could use a turn around the gardens.”

“Have fun,” Éowyn says, turning as if to make off and take her leave and he has a flash of total panic, which is probably what causes him to nearly trip over himself in an effort to stop her.

She turns just in time to see him pitch forward and stumble back to his feet. He's sweating so hard he can feel it on his neck, and his feet feel ridiculous. As does as the rest of his body. And his mind.

Éowyn breaks into a small smile. It evolves into a chuckle, then into a laugh, and then she is leaning against him and is wracked with snickers, hitting his shoulder with the flat of her hand.

“Why didn't you just ask me?” she laughs, face crinkled into a brilliant smile.

“I assumed you knew, since we've been doing this for some time now --” Faramir starts, bewildered, but she just hits him again and buries her laughs in his shoulder.

Her long, wild, golden hair tickles his face.

Faramir is surprised, but he chuckles even as he wonders if he should get his knees checked on. He might’ve twisted them the wrong way; they’re rather sore. But he cannot bring himself to worry too much when the most incredible woman he’s ever met is letting him hold her in his arms.

 

* * *

 

“I have to return to help the Healers in an hour,” Éowyn reminds him as they stroll past the flowering bushes. When he was younger, Faramir used to pick the flowers there. They were roses -- white, red, pink, yellow. All sorts of shades. A spectrum of shades.

The only beauty he seems to be drawn to now, though, is the lady who walks about a half a foot apart from him.

He wonders if he can ask for her hand -- not in marriage! Only because she should be resting it in the crook of his arm, right? That’s what other couples seem to do. They’d passed two women arm in arm, laughing together and looking generally happy.

Faramir hopes they look generally happy, too, but he cannot help but feel hapless. He wonders what's happened since the last time they had _truly_ talked -- when he'd spoken to her of his deepest, innermost feelings. When he'd confessed how his heart had turned to hers.

 _I love you_ , he'd told Éowyn. And she had looked on him in wonder, and had said little.

She doesn't avoid him -- there she is, after all, walking through the rose garden with such an ease that it feels as if she’d always walked them -- so Éowyn must not hate him. But she has said little of that night, and Faramir dares not break the silence.

Silence. They were meandering through one so tense, Faramir half-thought he could cut it with a sword.

A sword!

“You can wield a sword,” Faramir blurts out to fill the silence.

Éowyn turns from the roses to give him a peculiar look. She’s really good at that. “Yes. That’s how I broke my arm.” She lifts her arm to emphasize, and Faramir gives her a weak smile.

“Well, yes, but I was also wondering if you’d like to pick it up again.”

She perks up at that. “Do you have training grounds I could use?”

“Yes!” he exclaims excitedly, accidentally drawing the attention of the two ladies, who throw him a dirty look at having been interrupted.

Luckily, Éowyn just looks vaguely amused. He takes it as a good sign and tries to surreptitiously rub the sweat off his palms.

“Do you want to go there?” she prompts.

“Yes,” he says again embarrassedly. “You seem at ease in this moment, but a little stifled as of late, being a lady of action.”

“I am,” she agrees, “but I don't need a sword to take action. Do you understand?”

Faramir does, and nods. “Healing.”

She nods back. “However, I do still enjoy handling a sword. Aragorn, or, well, King Elessar says that my arm should be healed by now, though…” Éowyn trails off, then shrugs. “No matter.”

“‘No matter’?” Faramir echoes with no small amount of suspicion.

Éowyn raises an eyebrow.

Faramir does the same, but he can't raise his eyebrow as high as she can. Defeated, he lets it drop.

She's very smug.

He shrugs it off and reminds himself to watch out for her arm.

 

* * *

 

The training room is empty when they reach it. Likely, all of the guards are on duty. Éowyn seems happy; Faramir definitely is, he is out of practice and would rather his men not see him like this. (Like a cooked, floppy noodle.)

“We'll have to wear chest guards and use blunts,” Faramir informs Éowyn, pointing out the gear closet. “I know we're both very capable, but we're also out of practice, bedridden and all.”

“I understand,” Éowyn says simply, smiling a little.

Later, Éowyn asks him to help her with her chest guard. Faramir hesitantly helps her lace up the back with shaking fingers, valiantly trying to fight down his blush. He doesn’t think it’s working.

Luckily, she seems oblivious to his awful bumbling. As soon as he’s done, Éowyn waves him off to go look at the practice swords they keep. She’s still wearing her dirty Healer’s dress, but it’s loose and functional enough that Faramir decides not to mention it.

Following Éowyn’s example, Faramir takes his usual training sword from the racks. “You’re sure about this?” he asks Éowyn again, a bit worried. He knows she’s more than capable -- she killed the Witch-king of Angmar, after all -- but she’s also been recently injured.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” she questions, hefting a sword and weighing it in her hands. She considers it for a moment, then slides it back into its place in the rack.

Faramir slides on a chest guard. “You did just break your arm,” he reminds her as he deftly laces up the back.

“Hasn’t stopped me from working with the Healers,” Éowyn counters, pulling out another sword. It appears that it is satisfactory, as she sets it aside instead of returning it. She looks up at him pointedly. “Besides, you were far more injured for a far longer time than I. If anything, I should be concerned for _you_.”

He knots off his chest guard with a furrowed brow. “But you nearly shattered your arm. Just because you were conscious doesn’t mean --”

“I have to heal my arm, and you your entire body. Which is worse?”

“It’s different!” Faramir insists.

Éowyn shrugs, raising her sword. “Maybe you’re just scared you’ll lose.”

Oh, no, no, _no_ \-- he had pulled this very trick on Boromir countless times before. Somewhat offended, he informs Éowyn of as much, but she just grins.

“Like you, I’ve pulled that line on Éomer and it has never failed,” she claims, casually weighing her sword in her hands. “I’d hoped it would work on you -- but you're too good for that sort of thing, I suppose.”

Faramir solemnly lays a hand over his heart. “You flatter me, Lady,” he jokes, but it sends his poor heart into a backflip. He's hopeless.

“Show me a good fight and I'll gladly flatter you again,” Éowyn challenges, opening her arms in invitation.

Faramir takes the opportunity to tap her side with his sword. She gasps in mock surprise, her fake outrage countered by his uncontrollable beam. “You cheater!”

“I merely accepted your challenge!” Faramir argues, but he can't even take himself seriously with the goofy grin he's likely sporting. “Perhaps I am just the better swordsman.”

“No,” Éowyn says curtly.

“Then shall we settle it in a true duel?

Éowyn raises her sword in defense, a mischievous smirk behind the dull weapon. “Obviously.”

 

* * *

 

They continue to spar until Faramir is sweating buckets, but he regrets absolutely nothing. He’d forgotten what it meant to be active, the exercise doing good for his neglected limbs.

Of course, they are both holding back a little. They are not seriously dueling. Faramir would never want to hurt Éowyn, not even in swords practice -- and it seems that she may wish the same for him. The thought touches him.

“You're keeping up well,” Éowyn remarks with rushed breath, holding her blunted sword up in defense.

Faramir laughs, turns his sword in his hands, and says, “I would say the same of you, but I'm certain you're better.”

She flushes even deeper beneath her rosy and sweat-sheened cheeks. “You tease --”

“No, I am serious in this,” Faramir corrects. He lowers his sword, unable to hold back the fond smile that only seems to emerge for the woman he loves.

But she's gazing back at him with uncertainty, something Faramir has never truly seen in her before, and not something he would ever like to see again.

She is the White Lady of Rohan and a Wraith-Slayer. The Bane of the Witch-king of Angmar. She should carry herself with the pride and self-certainty that she has earned, and doubly so, over and over.

So Faramir tells her how much he admires and loves her with as much earnestness as he can muster. Granted, the effect is not so grand as he'd intended within his mind, but Éowyn is blinking rapidly and her mouth is slightly agape.

So perhaps he hadn't missed his mark completely? Perhaps he was still on the target, at least?

Then Éowyn’s mouth snaps closed and she turns heel and leaves the training room without another word.

Faramir nearly drops his sword as his knees go weak and give way, the sound of her hurried, departing footsteps echoing in his ears.

 

* * *

 

Faramir has rarely ever been so unsure. He may not have the blustering confidence that Boromir did, but he isn’t a Captain for no reason. He knows how to direct his men, how to handle leadership.

Or, well, now he’s the Steward. If perhaps only temporarily. Same idea, though.

So why is he just standing in the middle of the hallway?

If he turns the next corner, he’ll be outside the Houses of Healing. Éowyn will be there. No doubt she’d hurried there after Faramir had made a fool of himself. She's probably embarrassed by him, though not as embarrassed as he is of himself.

Still -- Faramir’s never shied from taking action. Going into the Houses to find Éowyn and ask to talk to her alone would be the natural and necessary response to the crisis.

Faramir immediately turns around and hurries away. His face is burning fiercely and he knows that he won’t be able to bear seeing her right now.

Of course, that means he bumps into the very next person he wants to avoid.

“Faramir?”

It’s Éomer, because _of course_ it’s Éomer.

“Your Highness,” Faramir says and hopes his voice doesn’t break and betray him. He tries to turn around and bow at the same time -- he isn't even sure why -- which really isn't a good idea, and with the look Éomer’s giving him, he's sure the King of Rohan thinks much the same.

“Were you just with my sister?” Éomer says bluntly. He arches a skeptical eyebrow for effect.

Faramir fiddles with the hem of his shirt which he's pretty sure stinks of sweat. He hadn't changed since his and Éowyn’s sparring session. “An hour ago, yes.”

Éomer makes a show of peering behind Faramir, and Faramir can feel the dread creep into his heart. “Really? An hour? You've just come from the Houses of Healing, have you not?”

“I…” Faramir struggles to find the words. He can't lie. It's never come easily to him, and he’s only ever been able to summon the skill when in the line of duty. Talking to Éomer doesn't quite rise to that. “I never entered the Houses.” Faramir hangs his head, guilt pooling in his stomach.

Éomer is surprised. “Are you not good friends?”

“We are,” Faramir says, but he hesitates a moment too long.

“But?”

He closes his eyes, and confesses, “I am in love with your sister, Your Highness.”

Éomer is silent for a beat. Faramir wonders who'll attend his funeral now that all his immediate family is dead.

Then the King of Rohan says, completely unsurprised, “Is that all?”

Faramir’s head snaps up. “You don't disapprove?”

“I do if your affections are unwanted,” Éomer warns sternly, but the young man's face soon softens. “But, Faramir, I am certain that they are not. I can see that you are conflicted, and my advice is to simply talk to her. She'll ignore the topic completely unless you force it.”

“Oh,” Faramir says faintly. (He also wonders why people say he's fair with words, but that is off-topic from the situation at hand.) “I thank you, Your Highness.”

Éomer regards him carefully, and Faramir can't help but feel that he's being thoroughly examined. It's not pleasant. “Don't mess this up. I would see Éowyn genuinely happy again. Not heartbroken, as she has been for years.”

“There, we are in agreement,” Faramir says.

Éowyn's brother actually smiles at that.

 

* * *

 

“May I speak with Éowyn?” Faramir asks the nearest healer softly, a bustling old woman who gasps at the sight of him. He winces.

“Of course, Steward!” she exclaims, then hurries off to presumably find the young woman.

Faramir hovers nervously in the hallway. But then he looks down, and he is moved to pity. This hall is being used for soldiers who have just gone through surgeries -- most are missing limbs. An arm here, a leg there. A few are awake, but most pass the day sleeping in recovery.

Faramir looks down at his right arm and wonders how close he came to losing it, in all his years as a soldier.

“You’ll find her around the corner!”

The old healer is back, hurriedly motioning for him to pass through her wards. “You'd better talk to her quick! She has such a troubled air about her…”

Faramir barely has time to say “thank you” before he has turned round the great stone structure -- where there is Éowyn, golden hair let out of her braid and flowing about her smudged dress.

“I'm sorry,” Faramir says immediately, but Éowyn shakes her head mutely.

“No, I'm sorry. You said such kind words and -- I'm afraid --” But Éowyn blinks and stops there, and her lips go tight.

“You are afraid?” Faramir prompts gently, though confusion and worry begin to plague his mind.

Éowyn, however, shakes her head. “No, not truly.”

“Of me?” Faramir prompts again, but this time _he_ is afraid. He has been afraid before -- he'd been afraid for his brother when he left with promises of return, he'd been afraid for his mother when her skin had turned wan, he'd been afraid for his father, at the end -- but he has never felt so afraid of the loneliness of heartbreak that he isn't sure he can bear again.

But he will have to, if she turns away now. He is afraid, but not unwilling. Faramir would wish himself dead before hurting Éowyn, or, really, anyone, like that in any capacity.

To his surprise, though, Éowyn looks shocked. “No, never!” she amends urgently, rushing forward to take his hands in hers. “No, the problem lies with myself. It is difficult… but it is not you.”

The relief that floods Faramir is a confusing one. “I’m sorry --”

“Don't be,” Éowyn says, squeezing his shaking hands. “I am just… I am not sure that I am what you want.”

Faramir’s relief is quickly overwhelmed by even more confusion. “No -- what?”

“Only that,” Éowyn quickly adds, cheeks tinged with pink as she half-meets, half-avoids his beseeching gaze, “I cannot love you back, yet. One day, I believe that I shall… but now is too soon, with Théoden King and, ah, the war, and… and I have only just begun a new chapter in my life, as they say.” Her voice is steady, but her eyes are tinged in red. “I am no longer entirely sure who I am, you understand.”

Faramir does, a little. “My father,” he starts, but Éowyn tugs his hand gently so that they sit together, leaning against the stone balcony. He can still hear the Houses of Healing bustling behind them, even with the darkening sky and the fading sun.

“My father tried to burn me alive,” Faramir continues, and Éowyn nods because she already knows this. She still looks disturbed. “And I have spent nearly all of my life trying to make him proud, trying to follow my brother -- when really, heroics and war were his strengths, and all I wanted to do was, well, read poetry.” He gives her a half-smile, which she accepts. “So I think I may understand the crisis you face now. Not entirely, of course, but perhaps in part.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you're a hero,” Éowyn says after a minute of comfortable silence.

“Not nearly so great as you are,” Faramir says seriously.

“Me!” She gives the bitter laugh he's become far too acquainted with. “I slayed the Witch-king of Angmar, a heroic deed, but found no relief in it. I wanted to die valiantly. I did not. You, though, have braved far more --”

Faramir interrupts her. “I have talked with some of your people, the Rohirrim. They say that you cared for Théoden King in his illness and madness brought about by Saruman. That already is heroic enough -- and you continue caring for others in the Houses of Healing.” He shakes his head, smiling ruefully. “I don't have quite the temperament for that work. It is more noble than composing terrible poetry.”

“I don't find your poetry terrible,” Éowyn assures him.

“You haven't read enough of it.”

She laughs; it's breathy and light and it warms Faramir some. “Thank you, Faramir. For understanding, I think.”

“I would help you in anything,” Faramir says. He is serious, but it comes out slightly awkward and he almost coughs to cover it -- but he stops himself.

He used to wish for Boromir’s brazen charisma, but he looks up to the stars that begin to appear in the darkening sky and finds that he doesn't have much need for it.

So Faramir smiles at Éowyn, and she returns it, albeit confusedly.

“Is there anything I can help _you_ with?” Éowyn asks suddenly, squeezing the hand he hadn't realized she'd still been holding.

Faramir hesitates, then figures he may as well. “There is one thing…”

 

* * *

 

They're at Éowyn's public quarters again, like they were only a night before, and they are relaxed. She's combing her fingers through his dark hair. It's soothing and Faramir is close to drifting off.

The deep blue mantle is draped around both their shoulders. Faramir had first picked it up from her receiving quarters to give it to her, but she had shaken her head and pulled it around both of them. They're conserving heat better this way, so Faramir is loath to complain. Plus she and the mantle are comforting, and comfort is precious in these times.

“There,” Éowyn says softly, pulling on his hair in satisfaction. “I've finished braiding.” She leans against him, her head on his shoulder, and her own braided, golden hair falling against his back.

Faramir smiles up at the stars and squeezes her hand.

“Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays, [@alia-andreth](https://alia-andreth.tumblr.com)!! :) 
> 
> (kudos or comments are always appreciated :) and you can catch me on tumblr [here](https://bisexual-turin.tumblr.com)!)


End file.
